The Ghost In the Room
by psychicpilgrim
Summary: When Dean and Sam go after an elusive artifact to solve a case, they discover an unlikely ghost.


**The Ghost In the Room **

"Hey, Sammy! Check this out!"

Pulling the old fedora low on his forehead, Dean faked a scowl and positioned the vintage Thompson machine gun against his ribs.

"Stick 'em up!" He scanned the room for a mirror. "How do I look? Sam?"

Moonlight beamed through the uncovered windows, forcing Sam to stay in the shadows as he combed the shelves and searched through the drawers and cabinets.

"Aw come on… I look like one of those 1930's gangsters. Too bad you can't take a picture, huh? We could make one of them 'most wanted' posters like in the old days."

Knowing their time was limited, Sam had done his best to ignore his brother until that point, but pointing out the obvious was irresistible.

"As opposed to the real one the F.B.I. has of you right now, Dean?"

Silently mocking his younger brother, Dean set the gun down on the rickety cot against the wall of the tiny cell and approached the open door. Holding the iron bars in his hand, he swung it back and forth, wincing at the rusty squeak it produced.

"Whose idea was it to make a jail museum anyway? I mean, do they bring school kids here on field trips?" His voice rose in a snooty falsetto. "Look at the lovely handcuffs, children. If you don't pass your spelling test, we'll lock you up in the cell, too." He chuckled and pulled the hat lower on his forehead. "In my case, I'd have been locked up in here years ago."

"Yeah, it's a good day when you can spell your own name right."

Dean scoffed. "Well, we can't all be Mr. Phi Beta Krappa."

"Kappa."

"See? Kappa, Krappa. Trust me – chicks don't care if you can spell."

Laughing at his own joke, Dean turned around to look for additional items to add to his gangster ensemble. A suit jacket hanging from an ornate hook on the wall caught his eye. When he reached up to grab it, the cell door behind him slammed, the loud clank resounding through the old building.

Glancing up, Sam squinted in the dim light and shook his head. They had driven all day to reach Porterville, Indiana, and the Old Jail Museum, hoping to locate a missing artifact belonging to notorious mobster, Charles "Fat Charley" Makley. Apparently the current owners of his former homestead didn't appreciate the nightly visits his disgruntled poltergeist paid them. A little internet research had led them here, with the hope of finding the missing link needed to finally put the disgruntled spirit to rest.

"You've got to be kidding me." Dean shook the iron bars. "Very cute, Sam. Now give me the key."

"It wasn't me, dude. I was over here the whole time."

The sudden slamming of the outside door froze both Winchesters in their tracks. Dean's eyes flared and for no good reason other than instinct, he reached back and grabbed for the defunct Tommy gun, pointing it at the back hallway.

Slow, dragging footsteps shuffled across the wooden floors as the intruder trudged closer, humming a lilting tune. Sam pressed his back to the wall and held his breath.

"Saints alive!" A hunched figure emerged from the darkness and stood transfixed, staring in the direction of the jail cell. "I'd heard the rumors, but never believed them."

A crop of snowy hair topped a round face and an even rounder body. The aged man hooked his thumbs in the straps of his worn overalls and swaggered towards the cell. Dean's eyes darted over to his brother, then back to the old man, unsure of his next move.

"The ghost of John Dillinger! And it's July 22nd, John Dillinger Day to boot. Well, I'll be."

"A ghost? Where?" asked Dean. He was interrupted by the old man's loud shriek.

"Mercy! Dillinger talks!" Reaching to his back pocket, he pulled out a metal flask and fumbled with the cap. With a shaky hand, the man brought it to his lips and took a long swig, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his plaid shirt.

"Whoa there, Ernest T. Bass. I think you might've had enough booze for one night, don't you think?"

"The name's Elmer, Mr. Dillinger, sir. I'm the caretaker here and it's an honor to have you in our humble little museum."

"I think it's the hat, Dean." Sam stepped cautiously towards the inebriated man, waving a friendly hand. "Hey there, Elmer. How're you doing tonight?"

Turning slowly, Elmer leaned into the tall young man and sighed loudly. "Now you don't look like a ghost at all."

Sam waved off the stale smell of alcohol and made his way over to the cell. Still smiling in the old man's direction, he patted the adjoining walls in search of a key.

"So how drunk is our friend Elmer?" whispered Dean.

"Oh, I'd say he's flammable at this point."

"Reckon I should call the Sheriff's office. Them boys ain't gonna believe me when I tell them I talked to Dillinger's ghost."

"They'd believe you if they saw the ghost for themselves," said Sam.

"No they wouldn't!" Dean growled under his breath. "Have you lost your freakin' mind?"

Sam spoke slowly. "But first you'll need to help Mr. Dillinger here. Can you do that, Elmer?"

Glassy eyes looked back at the young man. "I'd be honored. He can't kill me, can he?"

"No, no, I think you're safe. But Mr. Dillinger _is_ looking for something in particular, something that belonged to a buddy of his, and we think that item might be here."

Elmer ran a gnarled hand through his white hair. "In _this_ museum? Which buddy?"

"Charles Makley."

"Fat Charley! But wait a minute. I thought that you and Charley had a falling out, Mr. Dillinger?"

A look of panic lit up Dean's face. He didn't know Charley Makley from Charlie Brown and he looked to his brother for a little help. "Uh, yeah. Sam here can tell you more about that actually."

Sam rested his shoulder up against the wall and smirked. "Oh no, I wouldn't want to steal your thunder, Mr. Dillinger. We'd love to hear it first hand."

All eyes were focused on the would-be ghost who shrugged his shoulders and scrambled to think of a story. "Uh see, there was this woman…"

Sam snickered, but Elmer stood entranced, only diverting his rapt attention long enough to take another swig from his flask.

"… and old Chuck just couldn't accept that she was hot for me, and not him, so…"

The old man rocked back dizzily on his heels, apparently lost in the improvised tale.

"So, Elmer…" Sam's voice broke the spell.

The old man sighed. "It's always a dame, ain't it?"

Before Sam could reply, Dean shot him a look, his finger pointing in warning. "Don't!"

"I think I know what it is you're looking for, Mr. Dillinger, seeing as it's the only thing we've got here from ol' Fat Charley."

Before Elmer had disappeared down the dark hallway, Sam slipped a long skeleton key into the rusty key hole and jiggled it until he heard a click.

"Yes!" Dean rushed to the cell door only to find his brother blocking his escape path.

"Forgetting something, _Johnnie_?" Sam cast his eyes upward.

Dean got the hint and snatched the fedora from his head, tossing it next to the gun that he'd already abandoned on the cot. They closed the cell door as quietly as the creaky hinges would allow. By this time, the moon had shifted in the night sky, flooding the spacious room with white light.

"I knew we had it somewhere," called Elmer. "Just had to dig…" His mouth dropped open and he blinked several times. Dean was bathed in the bright glow and his shadow loomed large across the paneled ceiling. "How did you get out of the cell, Mr. Dillinger?"

"I'm a ghost, remember Elmer?"

"I keep forgetting the ghost part, on account of you seeming so real and all."

Dean stepped closer and pointed. "Whatcha got there?"

Elmer looked down at his left hand and the old tin canister it held. Years of wear and tear had scratched away most of the Chock Full O' Nuts label and the color had faded to a dull brown. He shook it gently. "Betcha can't guess what's inside."

"Betcha can't guess how tired I am right now, Elmer."

"Dean, chill." Sam elbowed his brother and pushed past him. "Sorry, Elmer. What Mr. Dillinger here meant was that it's almost midnight and his special day will be ending. So, you see, he's running out of time."

"Ohhh," gasped the old man. It was hard to tell if the tremor in his hand was caused by his inebriated state or his belief that Dean was truly a 'live' apparition. Either way, Sam was relieved when he finally handed over the canister.

After a struggle, the tight lid popped off and the pungent odor of decay hit the air.

"What the hell is in this can, Elmer?" Dean crinkled his nose. "Dead skunk?"

"Nah, just dead Charley. To tell the truth, ain't no one looked at that finger since…"

"Whoa, dude! Finger?"

"Well, sure, Mr. Dillinger. You mean, you don't remember what happened to Charley when he was in the State Pen up in Michigan City?"

"Uhh." Dean hedged the issue by snatching the canister from Sam. He peered inside and saw nothing. Tilting it towards the window illuminated the contents, and the moonlight reflected off what looked like small bits of pale stone buried in black sand.

"That prisoner had to be mighty mad at Charley to go and bite his little finger off like that, but hard time'll do that to a man. Course it's just bones left now." Elmer nodded at the tin. "But, is that what you're looking for?"

Sam reached over and clamped the lid back on the canister, his earnest glare catching Dean's eye. "You're certain this… finger, belonged to Fat Charley Makley?"

"Oh, yes indeed. I was the one who accepted the donation from the guard who used to work up there. But it isn't something we can exactly put on display, what with all the kiddies who come through here."

"You don't say."

Elmer released a long, wheezy sigh and squinted his bleary eyes at Sam. "Just for my records, what'd you say your name was again?"

"Kappa, Mr. Kappa."

"Krappa!" Dean coughed into his closed fist. "Speaking of which, me and Mr. K here need to be heading out."

"Aww, so soon?" said Elmer. "I never got to call over to the Sheriff's."

"Yeah, bummer." Dean handed the tin back to his brother. "Hey Sammy, why don't you walk Elmer out, okay? I forgot something." Hitching up the side of his mouth, he winked. "Be good, Elmer. And thanks."

Rolling his eyes, Sam ushered the old caretaker away. As soon as he heard the wooden screen door slap shut, Dean turned his attention back to the main room.

With a keen eye, he combed the place, making the most of the waning light. He looked past the displays showcasing antique firearms and original photographs, and raised an eyebrow at one out-of-place mastodon tusk. But it was the crumbling gravestone nestled in the corner that drew him closer.

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and sneered. "Seriously, a jail museum? You didn't spend enough time in the Big House?"

A tall figure emerged from behind the grey slab and wagged a long finger at Dean. "You're good, kid. 'Big House'? Sounds like you've seen one too many bad picture shows."

"Yeah well. So, the infamous John Dillinger, huh?"

"I heard you're a bit infamous yourself," scoffed the spirit.

"What? Oh, the F.B.I. thing? I was framed."

"Sure, kid. That's what we all say." Dillinger chuckled at what seemed like a lost memory. "So, is the string bean your partner in crime?"

"Who Sam? He's my brother."

The ghost nodded. "Family's important. Take care of him."

"I'm getting advice from a ghost." Dean glanced at the clock – 11:58. "I guess you'll be leaving now?"

"Reckon so." Dillinger extended his hand. "It was an honor to meet you, Dean Winchester."

He was surprised by the ghost's firm handshake. "How'd you know…"

"Your name? One of the perks of the after life." The fading spirit sat down on the gravestone. "Say hi to Fat Charley if you see him. Tell him he still owes me three G's."

"Yes, sir. It was good to meet you, too, Mr. Dillinger."

"Call me Johnnie. And watch out for those dames, kid. It's always… the… pretty ones…"

The clock struck midnight and the voice dissolved with the image, leaving Dean alone in the warm room.

"Old Elmer's going to be okay?"

"Yeah, he passed out." Sam closed the door to the Impala and looked over at his brother. "What did you forget back there?"

Dean rolled down the window and shifted into drive. Cranking up the radio, he pulled away from the curb.

"Only how much I love this job, Sammy."


End file.
